


The Bell Chimes Red

by itslxipark



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, F/M, Gun Violence, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Past Brainwashing, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Smoking, Swearing, Tags May Change, There is plot I swear, and i really don't know how to tag huh, i tried to make Bell gender neutral, relationships, vodka warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28903233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itslxipark/pseuds/itslxipark
Summary: War rages on. Sides must be chosen. Allies must be made. Loyalties are tested. Tensions rise. Lives are at stake.Yet when the world is crashing down, here you are, standing defiantly at its edge, an end of gun aimed at you. Wondering, how amusing a person can change for a single chime.How amusing a person could let another hands ruin their lives into such pathetic strains.And how absolutely naïve of you assume a puppeteer would have any use for a broken puppet.
Relationships: Russell Adler/Bell, Russell Adler/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. CHAPTER I - prologue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my first attempt a full fic! and my first time posting so many words pft-
> 
> only like the last 20% of it iscanon and that's not even an interaction with Adler i'm sorry— but this is more like a prologue-ish part (see it as a teaser if you will)  
> i haven't quite gone about putting a gender label on the Bell in this story, and i'll try not to but i apologise in advance if i decide on a specific gender later on in the story.  
> 

It was snowing.  
  
  
The road stretched in front of you was blanketed in a thick, cold layer of white, tucking away the dangers of a hardened dirt road underneath its pure façade. Trees lined in uneven rows, with the occasional whiff of the salty gale from the White Sea mingling queerly with the crisp, dry air of Soviet winter. And it was getting to you. Despite the thick padded jacket draped over your shoulders, the cold was slowly creeping up your calves, your spine, your nape; its harsh squalls wracking shivers down your body, raising goosebumps in its wake. You rubbed your hands, blowing precious warmth onto your red (and well on its way to being swollen) fingers, shifting the rifle sling on your shoulder in between huffs. The cold metal body of the firearm pressed against the side of your neck did little to alleviate the discomfort.  
  
  
“Comrade!”  
  
  
A voice called out, jolting you out of the trance-like serenity the winter of Solovetsky islands provided. You turn, facing the young soldier who beckoned you over. Kuznetsov, if your memory served. The truck door was ajar, with his hand stopping it from fully closing, the low rumbling of the old engines chipping away the quietude the natural surroundings provided. There was anticipation in the freckled youthful face of his, like a child bouncing with innocent excitement. You rather envied his naïve innocence. That blind enthusiasm to rush forward with recklessness and seize the day; oh-so prominent in the younger privates, and oh-so familiar to you. It was almost a nostalgia, a fragment of sentiments past.  
  
  
Snow pelted down your back as you trudged your way over to the fellow soldier. You did not return the wide boyish grin on his face.  
  
  
“We thought the area was clear, comrade— we almost left without you,” he chuckled, patting your arm as he motioned at the passenger seat; tattered leather, tight space; tight but snug and warm in the cruel Soviet winters.  
  
  
You grimaced, shrugging away his hand.  
  
  
“Quite,” came your curt reply as you entered the truck. He merely shrugged; grin unwavering as he got on the truck after you. The gun resting on your shoulder was slung down, now sandwiched between you and the car door. Not that it was of any use at the moment, but it was still nice to have the comforts of a firearm around.  
  
  
“It’s not a nice place to be left behind, comrade,” he continued as he manoeuvred the truck between wiry trees and dirt roads. “It’s just trees and seas for ages to come.”  
  
  
“I’m aware.”  
  
  
He didn’t quite seem to notice your lack of enthusiasm, or he simply chose to ignore it. “But quite a sight here, no? Once a monastery, now a prison. Still makes a pretty sight.”  
  
  
You knew what he meant. It was indeed a pretty sight, the former gulag which watched over the west coast of the islands; covering up the unparalleled horrors the dear land had faced with the allure and charms of its stone-laden walls and white cathedrals. Red and green roofs dotted the interior courtyard, as seen from the outside as you drove around the large complex, with water bodies surrounding the west and east sides and green fields stretched behind its borders. Virtually impenetrable and inaccessible back during the height of its use. If only its wall was not built on cracks and crevices stuffed with rot and corruption (much like the rest of the State). Beautified and colored by blood staining the stone.  
  
  
“Indeed it does,” you muttered in response, as the behemoth structure drew near with each passing hum from the engines.  
  
  
As the vehicle came to a slow near the entrance of the old monastery, your eyes darted to the few men loitering around the front, giving glances at the incoming truck. There were soft murmurs of Russian exchanged between the men before one of them stalked towards you, hands shoved deep into the depths of his parka pocket. Kuznetsov responded to his temperament with a cheery greeting, which was not reciprocated.  
  
  
“Get your ass out,” the soldier grunted, a light scowl curling on his face. Swinging the door open for the young private, albeit it had the nuance of impatience— as if urging a mule to continue on its way. “Took you long enough to do patrol.”  
  
  
Kuznetsov merely chuckled but did as he was told, “Just fetching our star over there, and took a detour to give a tour.”  
  
  
The former snorted in disbelief, scoffing _“Right”_ as he gestured one of the other men to your side. You followed the cue, not quite looking for any trouble the instant you returned to base. Hoisting the gun, you were disappointed to find your weapon still rather cool to touch when you slung it over your shoulder once more. Your body didn’t quite appreciate the sudden drop in temperature as you stepped out, causing you to wince.  
  
  
A hand on your arm stopped you in your tracks just as you were about to rejoin your companion. Your eyes glanced up to the soldier, a cold gaze fixated at the man who stopped you. His expression did not soften at your piercing, threatening look, exuding an air of nonchalance with an exasperated sigh.  
  
  
“Comrade Lebedev is at the courtyard. Said he’s waiting.”  
  
  
Out of all the interactions you had that day, that got the most reaction out of you.  
  
  
A quick bark of orders was given to the men at the gates; you got in, walked through a short archway and was instantly greeted with the sight of weaponry assembly with men transporting machinery bits here and there. You passed by AA guns, occasional turrets and MGs, weaving in and out groups of soldiers. Your eyes caught sight of that sinewy figure you were looking out for, black hair jutting out from the edges of his beanie. A feeling of warmth rushed in and filled your body despite of the unforgiving cold; and it was enough to bring a small quirk onto your chapped lips.  
  
  
“Vlad!”  
  
  
You called out as a smile brightened your face from its earlier stoic state . The name you knew all too well, belonging to the man whose presence brought solace more often than not. His name rolled off your lips; his head instantly snapped back to your direction, harsh eyes softening the moment they fell onto you. He called your name back enthusiastically, returning the smile, gracing his facial features.  
  
  
There was a moment where he turned to face the man he was speaking to—you assumed it was to dismiss him— before he turned around fully, taking light, eager steps to approach you. You watched as he came closer, eyes darting to the man he had dismissed moments ago. Peculiar fellow, you winced to think where he got that scar, though you didn’t quite catch much of his features for he turned on his heels.  
  
  
And a certain Lebedev was vying for your attention.  
  
  
“I see nothing's deterred that smile of yours,” he teased upon reaching your side. A shadow of his signature shit-eating grin showed in the slight quirk of his cheek, eyes gleaming with a certain type of immature mischief. Boy at heart, he was.  
  
  
You returned the smirk, “Now, why would it, dear Comrade. I get to see you after all this time.”  
  
  
“You flatter,” he broke into a chuckle, breaking past the hardened façade of callous he wore mere moments ago. A light, amused sound, mingled with little plumes of breath which escaped into the cold air. It was like a notion of affirmation from a role model of sorts— you did suppose, after all, he was someone you looked up to tremendously, an older brother you never had. Your thoughts were cut short however, as he tossed his arm over your shoulders, grin unwavering as he pulled you closer in a half-embrace. “Come, let us get inside. It is cold out here.”  
  
  
You agreed to his suggestion; more than happy to escape the gelid weather.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
“You have news from Perseus, no?”  
  
  
It isn’t long until you find yourself sitting cross-legged your bed, which to say, isn’t quite much, seeing that you could almost feel the metal frame against your back through the thin mattress, watching Vladimir take his sweet time opening the bottle of vodka resting on the wooden table. The vague howls and whistles of the wind were long forgotten and ignored as you two enjoyed the warm shelter of the makeshift room. You watched his expression as he poured the clear liquor into two plain glass tumblers, eyes following his hand when he gingerly placed the bottle down amongst the clutter. He grunted, nudging one of the tumblers over before collapsing onto a nearby chair, his own glass in hand. You gladly take the other, downing the liquor to relish in the burning trail it left in your throat as it slipped down, enjoying the slow spread of warmth to the ends of your body.  
  
  
“New member aboard,” came his vague and short answer.  
  
  
“You mean the man you were talking earlier? The one with the scar and missing eye?”  
  
  
He nodded. “His name's Vikhor Kuzmin, from what I've heard. Goes by 'Stitch', or at least that's what the Americans call him. Heard it caught on among the other soldiers as well. He isn’t new to Perseus though; only new to us.”  
  
  
Vladimir’s words piqued a spark of interest, ears pricking upon hearing the mentions of Americans. If Americans (or more specifically, you assumed, the CIA) knew his existence, surely he must have done something big to have gained that fame.  
  
  
You leaned forward on the bed, intrigued, “I’m assuming he had contact with those _Американцы_ if he’s famous enough to have a fancy nickname. Related to the story behind that missing eye perhaps? That scar.” A finger was traced down your eyelid to cheek in an invisible, croaked line, in a mock attempt to replicate the scar. At least, what you could remember of it from memory. He chuckled.  
  
  
“Apparently he got caught by CIA once.”  
  
  
Not many things got reactions out of you. But some things proved to be the exceptions.  
  
  
It drew out a scoff from your end; to say disbelief laced thickly in your tone was an understatement. “How is he alive? Those bastards kill any enemy they see.”  
  
  
“No idea, but he survived the Americans. That's why Perseus wants him with us. Kuzmin hates the CIA— or more like someone in the CIA. Heard Perseus agreed to help him with his revenge or some bullcrap along those lines—”  
  
  
“Who?” Your hands, which were reaching out for the pack of cigarettes, stopped. Eyes snapping up only to find Vladimir’s expression unreadable. The small curl remained on his lips, yes— but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which gleam was replaced with a darker look. There was silence between you two, as you awaited the answer from him, the soft hums of the gale outside piercing through the light tension building in the air.  
  
  
“Adler,” he spoke, relenting after a while of what seemed like hesitation. “The only name in the CIA you have to avoid. ”  
  
  
“He never stops, engages in all sorts of shit to get things done. You can't get out alive once you're in his way. Hell, he's been hunting down Perseus for years now. That son of a bitch is tough as fuck, I tell you that.”  
  
  
It rang a bell but you couldn’t seem to lay a finger on it. Either ways, you snorted at the suspense he had built up.  
  
  
“Why would I ever get in his way— And he isn't as mighty as you say, Vlad; he hasn't caught me. And he'll have to catch me first if he wants to get to Perseus.”  
  
  
He frowned, “Don't jinx yourself.”  
  
  
“It's only the truth, Vlad. Don't fret your poor, old nerves over such tales those cowardly comrades spread.”  
  
  
“After all, this war is by men, as it has been for all wars. No men are immortal. Bullets take lives; guns win in the end.” You waved a hand to dismiss the arch in his brow, leaning back with nonchalant ease. There was quietude blanketing you two once more, the screeching of winds now seemingly had calmed down.  
  
  
There was tension. Not quite stifling, nonetheless present.  
  
  
Vladimir watched, nodding as your words sank in, not quite assured but knowing you, it would be a battle in vain to argue otherwise.  
  
  
He merely downed his shot of vodka. Face wincing at the bitter and scorching sensation the liquor left behind.  
  
  
“Capitalists,” he muttered, snorting. “Bloody capitalists and their wars.”  
  
  
You chuckled at his words. Your hands fumbled with the zippo momentarily before getting the satisfying flicker of flame bobbing gently. The cigarette, which hung loosely on the edge of your lips, was soon lit and the white cloud of acrid smell lazily wafted about in the air. Silence between you two slowly marinated itself into the scene; now no longer an awkward bystander but a comfortable companion you two were used to.  
  
  
“So,” he broke the silence after a few moments of uninterrupted, indolent peace. “Where are you bound for next?”  
  
  
Another puff of white expelled from your lips. “Turkey. Arash is there.”  
  
  
“Be careful. He’s an arrogant man.”  
  
  
“Don’t worry,” you muttered, eyes lost in a thousand-yard gaze at your rifle, which leaned against the wall lifelessly. Pity to think that the metal body was probably ice cold by now.  
  
  
Your eyes flickered up, facing him fully.  
  
  
“I will.”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Your jaw was clenched.  
  
  
It was only a few weeks later, you found yourself sitting in a similar truck, with Kadivar as your companion. From the limited interactions you had with the man, all you could fish out from deductions was his arrogance and strong sense of patriotism (of which the latter you had little problems with, but the former brought forth most issues). He was a difficult man to converse with, for most of the times involved you needing to break through his haughty tone first. It wearied you terribly and his condescension pushed you to the verge of throwing a punch at the man. Vladimir had suggested his discontented nature and you were tiptoeing along the edges just to discuss a plan with Kadivar.  
  
  
As the truck moved, the odd silence between you two was stifling; suffocating with a truckload of underlying tension lingered with the ever-increasing loudness of the awkwardness exchanged. You were apprehensive; he on the other hand seemed relaxed. It was eerie almost, leaving you question what mellowed his usual harsh air to something softer and rounder (if you could describe a person’s ambience by their edges). Perhaps that something favourable was about to take place in his end, you could not tell. Your only comfort in that vehicle (and hope for your sanity) was that the driver was a Soviet soldier you vaguely knew.  
  
  
After a while, you closed the file in your hands gingerly, careful not to not any of its contents slip away, before passing it to the man beside you. Eyes fixated at the windows. It was dark outside. Streetlamps dimly illuminated a gentle warm hue onto the roads, which were marked with passing signs. He glanced over, giving a curt nod of acknowledgement as he took it, opening it to view it for himself.  
  
  
From the Solovetsky islands to Turkey to Duga. Then Berlin, and then back to Solovetsky. Pity you didn’t quite get to see the world from the lenses of a civilian.  
  
  
His voice broke the peaceful quietude between you two, breaking your train of thoughts. “When the plane leaves Trabzon, it's stopping in Duga. This you know.”  
  
  
He paused, picking up the disc from the file between his fingers, examining it for a second. Swiftly stowing it into his pants’ pockets before proceeding with his words from where he left off. In that same unnerving tone of his which you were far too unfamiliar with. It brought sharp stabs of discomfort as you let Kadivar talk.  
  
  
“Here's what you don't know. Perseus won't be there. None of these hired guns are going to leave Duga alive. We'll dump their bodies in the forest. Then we will move the weapons to Volkov in Berlin.” The interior of the car was dark, and the streetlamps did little to aid your view. You could not see behind those dark shades of his, you could not deduce the emotions resting behind his eyes. You could feel the rise of alarms bells going off at the back of your head. Slowly but surely getting louder. There was this sudden feeling of inferiority that pierced you, this nagging feeling that seemed to suggest that you were in the vulnerable end of this whole conversation.  
  
  
“From there we fly to Solovetsky.” The clear view of the tarmac airstrip could be seen through the windows as his words came to a stop. Kadivar passed you back the file and the moment the truck came to a halt; he was quick and urgent to get off.  
  
  
Something was off. Too off.  
  
  
“But I have other plans for you,” his voice grew in volume as he stepped onto the tarmac, shutting the door behind him with a loud dull thud. You keep your eyes on him, gaze hardening with each passing word, body tense. The mellowed air of his now switched back to that spiteful nature you knew too well, hints of a smirk nestling on that insolent face of his. “Perseus thinks too highly of you.”  
  
  
His words, sneered. Face distorting into an ugly scowl. Ugly with jealousy. “I don’t want the competition.”  
  
  
Your hand was resting on the handle.  
  
  
Your body was turned to face the door on your end.  
  
  
Yet you froze during the split second when his hand rose, eyes darting to the 1911 he gripped tightly in his hands.  
  
  
There was little you could do to avoid the two bullets in that confined space. One pierced your outstretching hand. The other lodged somewhere deep. You couldn’t tell.  
  
  
Something warm trickled down your skin.  
  
  
_Pain.  
_  
  
You tried to scream, or shout or cry. But the pain constricted your throat. The increasing, impending darkness threatening to engulf you whole. Your vision warped into red. Blood, crimson red filled the limited world you saw  
  
  
It was getting so cold. Each breath you drew…hurt. Sharp stabs of pain piercing through your entire being excruciatingly. Your eyelids felt as heavy as lead, your vision now through the confines of your eyelashes.  
  
  
_Cold.  
  
  
Solovetsky.  
  
_  
  
A cold, gentle breath slipped from your lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch my subtle and pathetic attempts at trying to foreshadow pfttt
> 
> updates will be very, very slow unfortunately. this was really just an on-the-spur idea and it took me at least a week to finish/edit it through. i haven't exactly begun planning for the actual story yet (apologies jdkn) but i really wanted to post this because i was rather proud with what i wrote out ^^;;
> 
> translations:  
> Американцы - Americans


	2. CHAPTER II - lies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This moment, this was the rare, rare moment where realization silently dawned upon you; you two held the quietude and loneliness in the vacant safehouse. At half past one in the morning, where the others were most likely asleep or resting or seeking refuge in the privacy of their rooms. You were alone with him. No Lazar or Park in your ear to instruct you around. It sent this unexplainable shiver down your spine. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant; something so odd and queer.
> 
> It made you wonder if you were the intrusion.

_Lies.  
  
  
**Do not trust Adler.  
**  
  
Focus, Bell.  
  
  
**Adler is lying to you.  
  
  
**Such lies.  
  
  
_Voices. Voices filled your head. Distinct male voices you could not lay a finger upon, yet haunted your solitude and nights. Drowning you in their dulcet, cajoling tones which seemed to further drive you to the brinks of insanity; threatening to tilt the precarious balance your stability rested on. Words were vague, mumbled, soft; left nagging away at the ends of its echo in your mind. It confused you. It sent you into a downward spiral each time the voices resurfaced, both trying their absolute hardest to overwhelm the other, with you in the middle of the clash. Drowning; you were drowning in their words, in those _beguiling words_ …  
  
  
“Bell.”  
  
  
A voice cut through the whirlwind of words, dragging you out almost forcibly from the sea you were drowning in moments ago. This voice was clear. It was sharp and rather harsh, on which demanded attention and focus. It was weathered, it was deep, it was rather— you couldn't exactly pinpoint it—smooth. Most importantly, you could pinpoint the American accent you were far too used to hearing every day in the safehouse.  
  
  
The voice— which, in midst your distress, you had momentarily likened as your savior— dragged you out back into the dimly lit safehouse, to the desk that stood right smack in the middle of the grey concrete floor. Leaving your eyes staring back at the encrypted dossier spread out in front of you, one which had kept you occupied for the past…at least five hours. The chill of Berlin’s winter did not aid the light tremor and weakness in your hands nor body. A hand instinctively rose to your temple, rubbing and pressing down on it to try prevent (or alleviate) the rising migraine growing around the right temple.  
  
  
And you haven’t quite forgotten about the abrupt intrusion.  
  
  
“Can’t sleep?” He sat himself down opposite you without seeking permission, the usual faint traces of smoke from his cigarette curled into wisps in the air between you two. Tone the usual nonchalant— edged— one you were accustomed to hearing (even grew fond of it perhaps). You forced your gaze up, eyes falling onto his pair of shades you are so absolutely familiar with, the ones which masked his emotions. His tone wasn’t really helping; you couldn’t tell if he was genuinely trying to talk or if it was going to take the usual pathway to his lectures. But, at least you could tell by the minute tilt of head that his eyes went to the dossier, somewhat predicting his continuation from the slight pause in his draw of nicotine. “Or choosing not to?”  
  
  
Unlike the usual bare table in the middle, Park’s table, which you could see from your peripherals, was laden with files neatly tucked into boxes or dividers. Amongst the neatness, the table clock gave away the time; half past one in the morning. Beside the table clock was a small calendar, with dates crossed out until 27th February. In front of you was Lazar’s. To your left was Sims’. The table in the middle, the one you were working on, was usually occupied by the man sitting opposite you.  
  
  
This moment, this was the rare, rare moment where realization silently dawned upon you; you two held the quietude and loneliness in the vacant safehouse. At half past one in the morning, where the others were most likely asleep or resting or seeking refuge in the privacy of their rooms. You were alone with him. No Lazar or Park in your ear to instruct you around. It sent this unexplainable shiver down your spine. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant; something so odd and queer.  
  
  
It made you wonder if you were the intrusion.  
  
  
“The dossier,” you mumbled out vaguely after a moment’s pause, hand shifting from your temple to the bridge of your nose as your body leaned on your hand slightly. Not too comfortable with prospect of outwardly _telling_ — no, never; you couldn’t possibly let them know about these. You cleared you throat, inwardly wincing at the rather pathetic response you gave. Hand closing the blue file for good before it could distract you any further, resting your palm against the top of it. As if suppress the rising bile in your throat, suppress the memories. “I thought I had something. Thought ‘might as well try crack it by today. Park and Hudson are asking for it.”  
  
  
“Mhm.” He merely hummed in reply to your short ramblings. Something in his hum gave away his disbelief for your words, but he didn’t push it. His hand reached out and snuffed the tip in the red glass ashtray which had seen better days.  
  
  
A thought surfaced, through the migraine which menacingly toed the fine line of torment and norm. You wondered, what was he even doing up this late? You mused the question aloud, though knowing fully well that small talk was never really your forte, nor was it his. His words were normally straight to the point it hardly veered away. Precise phrasing and answers.  
  
  
But if things ever went south during this impromptu tête-à-tête, at least you had the (slightly) comforting backup of excuses. He was the one who first approached you in the middle of this Berlin night after all. There was that rise, rush of an odd feeling, that awkward yearn for him to stay. To continue this short and awkward conversation you two shared. Even if these moments were something so miniscule and insignificant.  
  
  
A moment’s hesitation, before he curtly spoke, “The former.”  
  
  
It took you a while to realise the former was directed to the former of the two choice he had inquired about earlier. You nodded, returning the courtesy of not prodding any deeper.  
  
  
Nightmares, or was it something else? Your mind first brought forth Danang, so naturally like some model answer it was prepared to serve when asked. After all, it was the first thing he requested for; for his and your recollection of Vietnam back during ’68. One which sent a grimace curling on your facial features upon hearing his request, but nonetheless you had spent the past few days retelling the story (albeit begrudgingly). Forcing the memories out weren’t quite the hardest part; it was the easiest if anything. No, the problem laid in voicing them out, with Adler prompting your recollections. Vietnam…alongside the dossier in front of you. Park was first to bring the dossier to you; you suspected it was from Hudson and you were glad that you didn’t need to talk to the prude.  
  
  
You hardly realized that you had fallen silent and that your thoughts took over. You hardly realized he was staring, as if trying to read your mind. An enigma, trying to break through your façades and masks.  
  
  
“I sense a question, Bell.” Fuck. “Out with it.”  
  
  
Your finger traced the bloody handprint on the blue file. Edges browned and tattered; must have been collecting dust in Langley’s archives. It had sentimental value, that dossier. After all, it was the intel Adler was vying for at Fracture Jaw, the intel you and Sims found behind that—  
  
  
_Red, red door._  
  
  
“If it was in the archives, I was wondering why bring it out now.” Your voice, soft, yet it penetrated and sliced through the quietness in the area around your two. Fingers tracing down the handprint, brows furrowing lightly.  
  
  
“We thought Perseus was dead. Turns out not. Discussions brought up Da Nang, Sims brought up this dossier we got.” His finger gently tapped against the cover. Partially, seemingly to get your attention back to him. _Like some teacher chiding a student—_  
  
  
“And we thought it’d be best for you to decrypt it, seeing that out of everyone else you hold more connection with that thing, and a talent for cryptography.” His tone softened as well as his answer came to an end, you noticed. Mellowing the active vibe he introduced with his previous statement, to match yours. A small mannerism you observed during your few days of stay.  
  
  
You nodded at his words, slowly registering before most of them were recognized as mere pretty sounds.  
  
  
“I know it’s abrupt, Bell. But Perseus is on the move, time waits for no man.” A beat, before he added on. “I can’t lose him now. Not like in Vietnam.”  
  
  
Almost like a confession.  
  
  
Eyes turn to him once more. The faint light overhead shone through dark, translucent material of his shades, through which you caught a glimpse of his eyes. Funny, you couldn’t remember if they were green, or blue, or brown.  
  
  
“Will we be going back to experiences in Vietnam frequently?”  
  
  
His brow raised at your question, gloved hand falling limp, short of reaching into his pocket. “No, it’s time to move on from that, we have a job to do.” Adler’s tone shifted into something akin concern (if you could call it ‘tough love’ or concern) with the questioning expression unwavering from his face. “You alright, Bell? You’re looking a little pale.”  
  
  
_No.  
  
  
Stop the voices.  
  
  
Stop the headaches, the hallucinations…  
  
  
**Pain—  
  
  
  
**_“No,” your hand curled against the handprint. “I’m fine.”  
  
  
_~~Against the handprint which seemed to fit yours a tad too well.~~  
  
_  
Such lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot!! finally plot!! i swear!!  
> it's pretty short though, compared to my prologue and im not sure if i nailed Adler accurately but oh well, here you go  
> it's still pretty slow (both the plot and the updates) but i'll try my best :>  
> i also might have added in references—
> 
> p.s. excuse any errors i might have—


End file.
